Snowman Pants

I have an old pair of flannel pajama pants covered in snowmen. They are soft and faded and comfortable to wear around the house. Luisa bought them for me almost 12 years ago when I was pregnant with Miguel and I wore them often that winter and lived in them when I was pregnant with Zeca a few years later.

I still wear them though they are too big and sag on my hips which makes them too long. I trip over them sometimes so I often walk through the house holding up the pant legs like a lady holding up her  petticoats as she steps over a puddle.

Most of the time, I love the comfort they provide, love the memories associated with them.

On Monday, however, I was feeling low and when I put them on that evening, I felt old and fat. I texted Luisa and told her that and she said sweet reassuring things and I continued to vent my self-doubt and she then suggested that I change pants.

I didn't though. I just sighed and moped around the house before turning my attention to dinner.

When Luisa and the kids arrived home, I was standing at the stove cooking and Zeca was the first one in the door.  She saw me and smiled the biggest smile and then dropped her bag and walked over to me,  "Oh Mama...you look so cute in those snowman pants!" "Really?" I asked. "Yes, so cute." And then she gave me a hug and bounced away to get ready for dinner.

Later, after the kids were in bed, I asked Luisa if she had said anything to Zeca about my texts and the pants. She said that she hadn't which meant that Zeca's words were true to her. She didn't know that I was having a bad day, that I felt old and fat. She saw me in the way a kid sees someone they love - in the best possible way.

Aging is a tricky thing and body image issues will always plague me but, sometimes, having my daughter think I am cute is enough.

And that night...it was everything.

Jumping the Wake

My mother wanted to me to learn to water ski but I didn't want to learn. At the time, I thought she wanted me to be something other than the bookworm I was. Looking back, I think she just wanted to share something she loved with me. The first time I tried I was only five. I still remember sitting in the water and the way my feet felt in the tight rubber fittings of the skis. I shivered as I held onto the rope and listened carefully when I was told to let go of it immediately if I fell.

The boat started and I came up out of the water but flew forward, face first into the water and I held onto the rope for fear that I would be left out in the middle of the lake. When the boat finally stopped and I came up, I was choking on lake water and tears.

Every year after that, my mother insisted I try again and every year I failed. I didn't want to ski and I hated her for making me.

When I was 12, I looked her in the eye and told her that I wouldn't try anymore. "You can't make me!", I said in the most defiant tone I could muster.

She made me.

I sat in the water, skis perfectly upright, rope between them, knees and arms slightly bent - I knew everything I was supposed to do - and when the boat took off, I came up out of the water with ease.

I was skiing.

I watched as my mother threw her arms into the air and began screaming joyfully and I waited until she made eye contact with me and when she did, I let go of the rope and drifted slowly down into the water. It was an act of rebellion.

As I climbed into the boat she yelled,  "Why did you let go?"

"I proved to you I could do it and now I don't ever have to do it again."

She never asked me to ski again.

My parents retired to their lake home when I graduated from high school and I spent the summer before college there. One quiet weekday afternoon, my mother and I were sitting on the dock and I turned to her and said, "I want to go skiing."

She turned to me, "Really?"

"Yeah, let's do it."

I spent the rest of the summer skiing, eventually learning to ski slalom. The picture up there is me, taken that summer.

A couple of summers ago, when Miguel was 9, he told me he wanted to learn to ski while we were at our friends' cabin. I was in the water with him and told him all the important things - keep your skis straight, keep the rope between them, hold on tight but let go if you fall. He shivered and nodded and did as he was told. When he was ready, the boat took off and so did he. He popped right out of the water and never stopped. I threw my hands in the air and screamed and when he was a small dot in the distance I thought of my mother and cried.

This past summer, we spent our vacation at our friends' cabin and Miguel skied almost every day. He no longer remains behind the boat. He moves from side to side, easily jumping the wake. My mother would have been so proud of him and I think she would have been proud of me too. After all, I taught him everything he knows.

Of course, everything I learned about skiing I learned from her.

Good Books

We've been going through old pictures and came across this picture of Miguel taken when he was two. I remember those overalls so well, remember the feel of his fat little feet as I strapped them into those sandals. Just looking at the picture, I can almost feel the stickiness of his skin from the heat of summer, popsicles and playing in the grass. Life was simpler then. One kid, two parents - those are some good odds.

Our struggles were simpler then. The biggest challenge was his tendency to dart away from us in crowds and crossing the street. We were always able to catch him and carry him back.

I was tempted to write that he was simpler then but I know that's not true. We just hadn't yet seen all of who he was becoming.

We still haven't seen all of who he is and that is part of the gift of having kids. You get to watch a person become themselves.

Of course, there are days when I don't think it's a gift at all. I want to know how the kids turn out. I want to fly ahead to the future and assess the outcome. Are they loved? Are they kind? Are they happy? Do they play too many video games because their mother was a lousy example with all her blogging and social media shenanigans? At least, I know they won't be eating Twinkies.

I look at that chubby little boy in the picture and I miss him a little bit. I also miss the mother I was then - a little less tired, a little more present, a little less worried.

But then, I look at the boy I have now and think he's pretty great too. He is insightful and smart and gets sarcasm and makes me laugh every day. He also takes a shower by himself which is a gift too.

When I spend enough time with my kids, as I did this past week, I realize that I don't need to know the end of the story before it happens. I just need to enjoy it and remember that I'm not telling it alone.